


So Beat the Drums of War

by Qwae29



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-18 20:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15493989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qwae29/pseuds/Qwae29
Summary: The Legion has been defeated and Azeroth is safe from outside invaders, but with this peace comes an old and familiar threat from within. The necessary and expedient unity between the Alliance and the Horde is crumbling under the weight of old grudges and the sting of wounds left unhealed. Drums sound in the distance like thunder. War is coming to Azeroth once again…





	1. The Rogue and the Warrior

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All belongs to Blizzard. Long live Blizzard! All hail Battlenet! May your servers never go down! 
> 
> A/N: Hello all! It finally happened; I’ve expanded to other fandoms. This doesn’t mean I’ve given up my beloved Star Wars fandom, but the brave champions of Azeroth called to me and I cannot ignore their plea. This story (and any others of the fandom that may follow) will center around my main toon in World of Warcraft, Qwaeshiral Dawnchaser a Sin’dorei Hunter of the Horde (sharp readers might note this is where my penname was derived). This may be a one shot. This may be a first in a long series. Who knows! Read on and adventure forth with me!
> 
> Thanks: 
> 
> A special thanks to all my fans. I hope you find this work as enjoyable as my others.

                                                                                      

 

            The brightly burning corner braziers warmed the room past what was comfortable, but the wide-open space and high ceiling kept the heat from becoming too oppressive. Shadows cast by firelight danced on the walls and hanging hides emphasizing the stark red and black spiked curves of Orcish architecture.

            High Overlord Varok Saurfang leaned over the large table near the room’s center. He stared at the tattered map beneath him with a grim expression. He tightened his jaw, his molars grinding minutely causing his tusks to jut up and out. The thick calloused fingers of one green hand drummed a steady tattoo on the hard wood of the table’s surface while the other came to his chin, stroking his massive maw in a thoughtful gesture. Suddenly, the drumming stopped and the old orc straightened. He turned his head slightly towards his left shoulder.

            “So, the rumors were true,” he called out to the seemingly empty room. He turned from the table, his eyes narrowing as he stared into a shadowed corner. A quiet moment passed, and then the shadowed moved. A figure stepped forwards, head cowled and faced covered.

            “You knew,” the figure spoke. Saurfang’s mouth twisted slightly, one corner lifting in a half smirk.

            “Only suspected until now,” the old orc replied. “It’s good to see you, Erised.”

            The figure stepped closer to the orc and further into the light, pulling the scarf that covered her face free.

            “I am called Ellashandra now,” she answered as she lowered her hood revealing a short bob of now shock white hair. “Erised died at the citadel.”

            “With my son.”

            “No,” Ellashandra cut-in sharply. Her eyes flashed, the fel green energy glowing brightly for a moment. “Dranosh fell at the Wrathgate. That… abomination we killed in Icecrown was not him.”

            Saurfang grunted in agreement though his face bore a slightly saddened expression before falling back into his more customary stern grimace. Two broad, muscular arms were brought up and crossed over the plate armor of his chest piece as he eyed his unexpected companion. Though her head was now revealed, the rest of the slim Sin’dorei’s body was covered head-to-toe in midnight hued leather, a pair of gruesome, serrated daggers strapped on her back. Those daggers were far more famous than the elf that wielded them. They were the Kingslayers. His own weapon, a master-crafted two-handed battle axe, carried no name – it’s history known only to those who had fought beside it or been felled by it.

            “Why have you come?” he asked gruffly. “And why do you sneak about as if you were surrounded by enemies and not allies?”

            “Am I?” Ellashandra asked as stepped to the edge of the table with utterly silent footfalls. A gloved finger traced the western border of the Northern Barrens.

            “Are you what?”

            “Surrounded by allies?” she answered. Saurfang’s brow furrowed deeply as he watched her examine the map.

            “You are in Orgrimmar,” he replied flatly. The corded muscles of his arms bunched and tensed noticeably at the elf’s implication. “What is your purpose here, assassin?”

            She glanced back up at the old orc then, a small smirk forming on her thin lips. Ellashandra recognized the taunt for what it was and found herself rather amused by it. She knew Saurfang wore his honor like armor and, as a consequence, found her line of work… distasteful.

            “Sylvanas intends to move against the alliance,” she replied simply. It was not a question.

            “ _Our_ Warchief,” Saurfang growled, “will do as she sees fit.”

            “Regardless of the consequences?”

            “She is our Warchief.”

            “And you would follow her, regardless of the consequences?”

            “She is our Warchief,” Saurfang repeated the answer used as both a sword and shield. A single, elegant eyebrow raised.

            “We have followed a Warchief blindly before,” she retorted. Saurfang’s mouth opened then snapped shut. He turned to the map covered table, resting both his massive hands on its surface. He leaned forwards, studying the hand drawn terrain in silence, the long silver braids of his hair swinging in tiny circuits like a tightly wound pendulum.

            Ellashandra’s green lit gaze fell to the map and ghosted across the detailed depictions of mountains, oases, and forests. No markers or movable icons rested on its surface, but she had no doubt that her companion was moving pieces in his mind, adjusting his warscape like a grandmaster playing a game of Jihui.

            She let her gaze roam across the board imagining the game to be played. The territory showed the Northern Barren traveling up to the Ashenvale Forest and ending at the broken coast of Darkshore. She glanced at map again, tracing a winding route to the coastline. There was nothing of note in Darkshore. Much of the small Kaldorei village, Auberdine, had been destroyed during the Great Cataclysm. What could possibly be of interest in a place so close to Darnassus…

            Ellashandra eyes shot up with a start. She found Saurfang’s dark amber eyes watching her, but revealing nothing within their depths.

            “She’s wants the World Tree.” Another statement. The orc said nothing, but in his silence Ellashandra received her confirmation. “It is a bold move. Too bold,” she said holding the older warrior’s gaze. Saurfang grunted, but otherwise held his tongue, his eyes falling back onto the map. Ellashandra’s own eyes flared brightly once again as she leaned over the table leveling her heavy glare at the orc.

            “Saurfang, this is a mistake and you know it!” she hissed. The grizzled orc looked up then something akin to rueful resignation shinning his golden hued eyes. The rogue took a deep breath and reined in some of her immediate anger.

            “High Overlord,” she began formally, “I know we haven’t always agreed on… well, anything.” Ellashandra paused here, her lips twitching in a slight smile. “And I know you didn’t approve of Dranosh and I, but you must listen to me now and believe me when I tell you, this war Sylvanas would drag us into… it will only end in destruction and not necessarily the Alliance’s.”

            A heartbeat of silence passed, then two, three, Ellashandra’s grim pronouncement still hanging heavy in the air. Then Saurfang pushed away from the table, stretching out his spine even as he shook his head, his silver-gray braids rustling against his chest plate. A wide grin spread across face, his tusks jerking slightly as a huff of laughter escaped his mouth.

            “For a member of the Uncrowned, you seem woefully misinformed,” the old orc rumbled in answer. At Ellashandra’s raised eyebrow, he continued. “We agree on more than you think… including Dranosh.”

            “That is not the Orc way,” Ellashandra replied. Saurfang simply shrugged his massive shoulders, the single spiked pauldron on his left casting sharp shadows on the wall.

            “Erised was a capable warrior and my son cared for her very much. She would have made him a good mate… and an honored daughter,” he finished with a nod to the now speechless elf across the table from him. “As to the rest,” he gestured at the map resting between them, “the might of the Horde is the Warchief’s to command.”

            “And what of you? What is your role in the Warchief’s command?”

            “My role is to ensure victory… with as many lives intact as war will allow,” the old orc said with a heavy and meaningful look. Ellashandra searched his eyes and, after a moment, found what she was looking for and gave the warrior a nod. She stepped back from the table and pulled her hood up concealing her bright and distinctive hair. Saurfang watched her as she replaced the black cloth that hid her face, leaving only her eyes uncovered. Without a word, the slim figured elf headed towards the shadows once more, but before she could disappear Saurfang spoke.

            “Ellashandra,” he called and the dark clad head turned to him. “Do not grow old… if you can help it,” the old warrior spoke softly. A moment passed between the two, unguarded and honest, and then it was gone. Ellashandra gave a slight nod of her head and turned away. She stepped into the shadows and was gone. Saurfang turned back to the table and his map.

            “Lok’tar ogar, my friend. Victory or death for us all.”

 


	2. The Bull & The Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you know of Silithus?”  
> “Silithus? Where the titan’s sword struck? Was does that have to do with,”  
> “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Dathema, my wonderful beta. I couldn’t resist making some changes, therefore the errors are all mine.

            The steady tattoo of softly patted drums broke gently against her ears as Qwaeshiral Sunrunner stepped off the zeppelin and onto the landing. She closed her eyes, her head titled back, lifted to the sun, and inhaled deeply. The air smelled of earth and musk, leather and green growing things. It was a pleasant scent and a soothing one. It was the familiar smell of Thunder Bluff.

            Qwaeshiral opened her eyes and adjusted her traveling cloak, pulling her hood up and hiding her face if not her distinctive ears which poked through tailored holes. Any Tauren who saw her would know her for a Sin’dorei, but which one would remain a mystery. A furry head bumped restlessly into her right thigh and she stifled a grin. Ulani was the runt of a litter sired by her dearest and longest paired companion, Ulii. She reached down and ran a calloused hand through the butter soft fur – fur that ran in shades from spiced yam along his back and flanks to the creamy honey blonde of his tummy. The growing cub was the spitting image of his father and Qwaeshiral had to actively resist the temptation to treat the youngster like the father. Ulani was full of potential and would, in time she was certain, grow into clever and powerful partner. But he’s still a cub yet, she thought as she watched the adolescent springpaw’s tail lash back and forth, head darting to keep up with the influx of new sights and scents.

            She moved forwards leaving the platform and descending the long ramp of the zepp tower. A quick snap of her fingers brought Ulani into step beside her. The dock was located on Spirit Rise, but her destination lay one rise over and a level up. There was little foot traffic, only a couple of Tauren, both walking ahead of her at a casual, but long striding pace, as she crossed over one of the suspension bridges that linked the three rises of the city to the main bluff. She exited the bridge and entered the lodge that connected the bridge to lower level of the city’s center. The smells of life were stronger on this main level as teepees and Taurens of different ages and sizes displayed and hawked various wares. The scent of cured and roasting meats began to draw the cat from Qwaeshiral’s side, and while the behavior was perfectly understandable it was also one to be corrected.

            “Ri!” she snapped in unusually curt Thalassian. The response was immediate, even as new to training as the cub was. Ulani’s golden head snapped around and he, reluctantly, returned to the hunter’s side following her up the large tower ramp to the city’s second level, with only an occasional longing backwards glance. The pair made their way up the ramp and across the open, communal gathering spot that sat in front of an exceptionally large hide covered tent. Two truly massive Tauren, and that was saying something, flanked the opening where a tanned kodo hide marked with war paint hung to give the tent’s occupants some privacy. Qwaeshiral came to a graceful stop a respectable distance from the tent and the Bluff Watchers. She slowly reached into satchel she carried, telegraphing her movements so as not to alarm the two whose eyes she knew were upon her. After a moment, she produced a scroll, tightly bound and sealed with a bit of string. She had written it last night. It was a simple introduction announcing her identity and her intent. The Watcher to her left reached out and took the small parchment in his massive hand. He gave a sharp nod and grunt then disappeared into the tent.

            Several moments passed as Qwaeshiral waited patiently for the guard’s return. When he finally did, he gestured her forwards holding the flap of hide open for her to enter. She gave a nod of thanks and then stepped inside, Ulani following obediently at her heels. The interior of the tent was as large as the exterior view promised and was warmly lit with torches at widely spaced intervals. Unlike outside, inside the tent the hide walls were covered with painted designs. Large swaths of red ochre reached to the high ceiling while other designs, some geometric others pictorial or symbolic, adorned the middle and lower sections. All were interspersed with words written in the beautiful but exceptionally difficult tongue of Taur-ahe.

            In the center of the tent stood a young, but impressive bull. He was bare chested, his light brown fur dappled with white and stretched over rippling mounds of hard muscle. On his head he wore a full feathered headdress that rested nobly between the dark, slightly chipped lengths of two horns sporting hand-crafted golden bands. To his left stood another bull who, though much older, was no less intimidating. His fur was far lighter, almost white and his left horn was broken and filed smooth. He wore no headdress, but instead stood in the flowing robes of a druid.

            “Ambassador Sunrunner.”

            Qwaeshiral stepped forward and bowed low, her fire-red hair falling out of her hood and over her shoulder.

            “High Chieftain Bloodhoof,” she replied. She straightened and raised both hands to lower her hood. She had just completed the motion when she was swept up into a crushing embrace. Her surprised “oomf” was met with rumbling laughter, laughter that she could not help but join with once she regained her breath.

            “It’s good to see you too, Baine,” she said as she returned the embrace as best she could considering their difference in frames. He placed her back on her feet, gazing down on her with a large smile across his broad features.

            “It has been too long Qwaeshiral.”

            She turned her gaze the other Tauren giving him an equally sincere if less energetic embrace.

            “And you, Hamuul. I’ve missed you as well.”

            “It pleases me to see you see safe and well this day,” he replied ending their embrace with a warrior’s clasp to her forearm.

            “And I you,” she answered warmly. She opened her mouth to say more, but a large, loud yawn from behind her interrupted her train of thought.

            “And who is this?” Baine rumbled, his humor evident even in the deep tones of his voice. The torchlight that glinted off his nose ring seemed to match the sparkle in his eyes. He kneeled, lowering his towering bulk to one knee with an ease and grace that belied his size. He held out a massive hand towards Ulani who took a cautious yet curious step forwards.

            “That is Ulani, a companion in training,” she smiled. The large cat had gone from sniffing to licking the Chieftain’s palm enthusiastically. Baine turned his head to her, his dark eyes widened slightly in surprise.

            “Ulani? Is he…?”

            “Yes,” Qwaeshiral answered already knowing her friend’s question. “Ulii was his sire.”

            Baine turned his attention back to the large cub. He gave the animal’s head some gentle scratches that left the beast purring contentedly.

            “You come from a fine line, young one. You two will serve each other well.”

            “Yes,” Qwaeshiral replied softly, her glowing green eyes diming. Baine stood and bowed his head slightly, his ears drooping a fraction.

            “It was not my intent to sadden you, my friend. We have had much too much sadness in the past months.”

            “And I fear there is more to come,” she said, her demeanor shifting from somber to serious with the ease that should have been beyond her years. “That is why I have come.”

            Silence fell after her grim pronouncement. Above her head, Baine and Hamuul exchanged a look before the druid grunted and took his leave without a word. The tent flap fell shut leaving the Tauren and the Sin’dorei alone in the space.

            “What has happened?”

            “Nothing yet, I don’t think, but… something’s coming, Baine. I can feel it.” Qwaeshiral began to pace a short length of the tent, her cloak swirling about her ankles with each sharp turn. “We defeated the Legion, the Horde and the Alliance together, tensions should be lowering not rising and yet…”

            “What do you know of Silithus?”

            “Silithus?” Qwaeshiral repeated, stopping mid-circuit in her pacing. “Where the titan’s sword struck? Was does that have to do with,”

            “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything,” Baine answered uncharacteristically cryptic. His tailed swished harshly, a subtle staccato display of his agitation. “Sargeras’s sword is poisoning our Earth Mother. She bleeds and from her wound a new mineral has emerged. I am told it is called Azurite, but it is like nothing before seen.”

            Qwaeshiral’s pale brow wrinkled as she considered Baine’s words. She looked up at him.

            “Who knows?” she asked, and the great bull shrugged.

            “Everyone soon. The Speaker, Magni, is seeking aid to heal the world and in doing so, he spreads knowledge of this discovery.”

            “I assume this new mineral, this Azurite, it is valuable?”

            “Immensely,” Baine replied with a huff. “It is… powerful beyond measure.”

            In an instant, Qwaeshiral understood. She could see all too clearly the connection between the growing tension she felt and the appearance of a new and powerful resource. People would seek to cultivate it, control it, use it. As each faction squabbled over land and access, lines and weapons would be drawn. The Azurite procured would be put to hideous use in bigger, better, deadlier ways to hinder, to harm, to hurt. History had shown this to be true. Conflicts had been started over less and conflicts could easily turn to war when scars ran as deeply as they did between the Alliance and the Horde.

            “We cannot let this divide us. We need to act quickly and speak with our allies. Normally, I would seek out Varian,” she hesitated, her usually smooth features limned with sorrow. “I regret I do not know the new king as well as I knew his father, but you… you have a good relationship with Varian’s son, do you not? You could,”

            Baine interrupted, raising a large hand to silence her.

            “I cannot. Our Warchief,” he paused his ears folding flat near his skull. “Our Warchief has… _strongly_ encouraged me to end my relationship with young King Aduin. I have obeyed her in this though it pained me to do so.”

            “She threatened you,” Qwaeshiral began, but then her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized him further. “No, she threatened them.” Her eyes darted to the entrance of the tent, a silent recognition of those carrying out their lives on the other side of the hide. The Chieftain said nothing, but between his silence and the pained look in his dark eyes Qwaeshiral was told more than enough.

            “Baine,” she started, but again he silenced her.

            “I, like you, wish for peace. This world has suffered much, we have suffered much, have suffered even at the hands of a warchief,” here he paused his ears again drooping low. No doubt he was thinking of his father. Qwaeshiral’s hand drifted absently across her belly. Yes, Garrosh Hellscream had caused them both to suffer much.

            “But I can never allow my personal wounds to bring harm to my people,” Baine continued recovering his composure with an authoritative ease. “Should you choose to… be yourself,” he smiled, “I will not be able to help you. But know that you have my support in your workings for peace. Upon my honor, whatever I am able to give, it is yours.”

            It disappointed her to hear his words, the limitations he put on his assistance, but she could not begrudge him for it. He was a leader of his people. They would come first for him and that was fair. She just hoped that his shadowed support would prove enough. She reached out her hand and grabbed his forearm. He returned the gesture though his massive hand and arm neatly eclipsed her smaller one. It was a hold of friendship, of warriors, of equals. She smiled at him.

            “An oath upon your honor is as reliable as the rising of the sun. I thank you for it, friend,” she spoke solemnly then her smile turned mischievous. “Now, I must go and do things you’d best not know about.”


End file.
